


the word goes around

by apaio



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Domestic, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hints at Frian, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-01 05:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18329792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apaio/pseuds/apaio
Summary: John lurches forward and suddenly there are lips on his, and Roger can feel his eyes flutter in surprise. The same warm feeling Roger feels for John over the stupidest little things surges forward in his chest once more, and when John pulls back, he finds himself dazed and frozen. He’s not tired anymore.John however, looks aghast, apologetic, and soon words are stumbling out of his mouth. “Oh my god,” he says, “Roger, I’m so sorry, I-”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey. long time no see
> 
> so this is set in '74 around and after the queen ii tour and around the mott the hoople support (and brian's bout of hepatitis). i don't really have any warnings actually except for like. references to homophobia in the first chapter i guess? and like. discussion of illness mayb? there's also brief roger/random dude that doesnt really go anywhere and is done with pr quickly
> 
> this is. all written and done i'm just gonna spread it out a little i guess and see if i can improve on the last chapter bc i dont like it sdksjkf
> 
> also there's some polari in the first chapter! it's pr cool if u don't know what it is and want to look it up, but i pretty much translate or give context for any uses of it so u shld b ok

Roger doesn’t know if there was ever a particular point where it started, but there is certainly a particular point where he realises.

He’s sat on some seat in a club on the cusp of Soho, not far from the bar they’d just played a pretty decent set in. He’s been drinking, though not nearly enough, and his arm is looped around the shoulders of a girl who doesn’t seem all that interested now he’s stopped kissing her and started staring off into middle distance. Brian has already buggered off back home, and he’s lost Freddie and John to the bustling movement of the crowd.

It’s a wonder he sees him, really, but he’s sat angled just so that he can see where John stands at the edge of the room. There’s a man with him, about John’s height though fairly bulkier, pressed awfully close to his body. For one moment, Roger thinks he’s squaring up to him and briefly considers working his way over in case there’s any trouble.

He realises that’s really not what is going on when he works out they’re still moving slightly with the music, and that the man has a large hand placed lightly on John’s hip. He must be saying something, because John raises a hand to tuck his hair behind an ear and gestures for the man to come closer. He does, and Roger can’t see his face well enough to try and lip-read, but when he pulls away there’s a flush on John’s cheeks and he just _knows_ what’s been said.

Roger expects a shake of the head, for John to sink back into the crowd or come back over to him or something. John isn’t, as far as he knows, that way inclined.

But John doesn’t do that. John nods, leans in to whisper something in the man’s ear, and Roger can see his lips graze against his cheek as he does so. The man nods back, and Roger can see that his hand has slipped to John’s arse. It sparks something uneasy in his gut as the man slips off into the gents.

John bounces to the music for a few moments on his own, hands on his hips as he leans against the wall, before he follows suit.

Roger has half a mind to follow. He isn’t sure why, but he wants to. He watches the door to the toilets swing shut with an unsettling feeling. It takes him a few moments to work out what it is.

He thinks it might be something protective, first of all. John slinking off into some seedy club toilets for a quick fuck doesn’t really align with his image of him. He wonders whether John will let the man fuck him, whether he’ll go down on his knees for him. He imagines those large, rough hands pulling at John’s hair, bruising his hips, and Roger is almost ready to charge in there and stop them. He doesn’t, and shakes the images from his mind as soon as he remembers himself.

It crosses his mind briefly, fleeting, that he’s got an issue with John – apparently – liking men. He thinks better of it immediately – he’s never been prone to care, even in his teenage years before it was legal. It doesn’t bother him, it never really has, so Roger dismisses the idea immediately.

It’s jealousy.

The realisation takes him by surprise, and he feels his heart stutter in his chest as it comes to him.

 _Shit_ , he thinks, and tries to ignore it by delving into the conversation the girl he’s with his having with – presumably – her friends. She seems much happier now he’s regained interest, and he feels her brush her foot up his leg. He finds himself constantly glancing back to the door of the bathroom.

When John emerges a little while later, his hair is a mess and his lips are swollen. His skin is flushed and though he seems a little dazed, Roger briefly thinks he looks gorgeous. He swallows, feeling a little sick, and stands, ignoring the complaints of the girl as he leaves.

The cool air is refreshing, gets him out of his head. He leans against the outside wall of the club and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t really have a problem with liking a man. In a trivial and curious way, he’s absently thought sometimes that he might give it a go one day, just to see what it’s like. It’s not ideal, but he isn’t freaking out about that.

He does have a problem with liking John. Not that he has a problem with John himself, John who’s perfectly lovely and quiet and beautiful (and _fuck_ , how hasn’t Roger realised this before?), not at all. It’s only that John is his bandmate, and more importantly, his friend. He can’t afford to fuck that up.

He flicks his cigarette onto the ground and stubs it out with his foot before stepping forward to hail a taxi.

*

It goes on like that for a little while. Now he’s noticed it, he can’t stop. That doesn’t mean to say John does it particularly regularly – it happens marginally more than it happens with Brian, which is a very low bar. John generally seems to disappear with stagehands he’s spoken at length to after shows rather than pick anyone up randomly in bars, but it’s enough to tell Roger that the man he saw in the club wasn’t an isolated incident.

In regards to himself, Roger tends to distract himself by taking home whichever girl’s been closest. If he has to cover aborted _J-_ sounds with repeated utterances of _Jesus_ while he fucks, then no one else need know.

He only ever takes girls home. He isn’t sure if it’s men, or just John, but he hasn’t had the chance – or intention – to particularly find out.

Maybe it’s time that changes, he thinks, as he enters the Royal Vauxhall Tavern.

Roger doesn’t think it’s conceited to say that he’s pretty enough to get a fair bit of attention. It mostly comes from larger, rougher looking men and the prospect scares him. He keeps his drink in his hands and keeps to himself, pulsating with nerves and considering leaving as he watches a man who looks like he could be a miner eye him up from the bar.

He’s about to leave when he makes eye contact with a slight man, a similar build to his own though slightly taller, with dark hair and green eyes and _oh_ , Roger thinks, because he looks almost like John. He has a soft expression, though his features are slightly marred by a black eye, and he seems to notice Roger’s attention and makes his way over.

They dance together for a bit, not too different to how Roger’s done with girls in bars, and when he kisses him a little while later it’s much the same. His breath stutters in his mouth when he remembers there are people around them, but when they break apart he realises nobody’s paying attention.

The man looks at him with blown pupils, touches at his arm with no real pressure, and begins to lead him into the toilets.

He pushes Roger against the inside of a cubicle door, locking it behind his back as he presses a long kiss into his mouth. It’s not rough, not really, and he’s really quite good at it. Roger breaks them apart for a second.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

The man gives him a surprised, gentle sort of look. “Peter,” he replies, softly spoken. “Yours?”

“Roger,” he replies.

Peter smiles. “Nice to meet you, Roger,” he says, and kisses him again.

They kiss for a while longer, and it’s going _well_ , Roger thinks, it isn’t that bad. Good, even. Maybe – maybe it isn’t just John, maybe this is something that’s always been open to him. It’s just kissing. Then suddenly, it’s not. Peter’s hands head slowly to his fly while he still tongues into his mouth, and though Roger doesn’t think he’s completely averse to it, he somehow can only think of _John_.

“You okay?” Peter asks.

He nods, kissing him again, but he thinks must anxious energy is radiating off him.

Peter stops again, dropping his hands. “You’re clearly not.”

He abruptly feels sick, confused, tired, anxious- all the emotions he’s been bundling up for weeks hit him and he makes some embarrassing strangled noise and Peter turns him around so he can sit down on the closed lid of the toilet. He buries his head in his hands, and feels heat rise in his cheeks under the eyes of a stranger.

“I’m sorry,” he says shakily after a moment, not lifting his head. He realises he’s breathing a little too quickly, shaking.

“This your first time?”

He looks up and nods.

“You’re legal, right?”

He doesn’t answer for a second, confused at why Peter would think he might not be.

“Over twenty-one?” Peter repeats like he’s worked out what Roger’s confused about.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. “Yeah.”

Peter hums his acknowledgement.

“You can go, don’t worry,” he says hoarsely. He doesn’t imagine he wants to stay to watch Roger’s crisis.

Peter just leans against the door. “I’m going to wait until you’ve calmed down.”

“I don’t want-”

“Not for that,” he reassures.

Roger finds himself surprised, endeared by the kindness of this stranger he’s just let down. He stares at Peter’s black eye. “What happened to your eye?” he blurts out of the blue.

“What?”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t-” he stammers after a beat.

“Some guy the other night,” Peter interrupts, like he realises Roger’s searching for a distraction. “Thought he was looking to arva, but-”

“Arva?” he questions the slang.

Peter seems to remember himself. “To screw,” he clarifies. “I mean he might have at first, but that certainly didn’t happen.”

“What?”

“He was rough trade,” Peter tells him, and though Roger doesn’t quite recognise that term either, he thinks he can work it out. “I knew that going in, but I thought I’d at least get some before he threw a punch.”

“Why would he do that?” he frowns.

Peter shrugs. “Not all the blokes who come here are particularly comfortable with all this,” he replies. Roger doesn’t think it’s aimed at him. “Sometimes it gets the better of them.”

“Can’t you report it somewhere?”

“Lilly isn’t going to do anything,” he scoffs, before noting Roger’s expression. “The police,” he corrects. “I’d probably get arrested for getting in a scrap.”

Roger finds his stomach churning thinking about John. He wonders if anything like that’s ever happened to him. Protectiveness flares in his gut. “Does that happen often?”

“More than you’d think,” Peter says. “I’ve spoken to a couple Dilly boys since, said he did the same thing to them. Maybe he’s just out to cause trouble.”

“What did he look like?” he asks, like he’s somehow planning to look out for John the entire time, like this one guy is the only threat to him.

“Do you speak entirely in questions?” Peter asks him, though it seems good-natured. “Tall. Probably half-a-foot on you. Shaggy hair, had a bit of a beard going. Had some tattoo on his arm, but it was dark so I can’t tell you of what.”

Roger nods.

“Why you asking, Roger?” he questions lightly. “I doubt it’s for you.”

He swallows. “I just want to keep an eye out for a…friend.”

Peter gives him a knowing smile, a pleased sort of expression crossing his face like he’s just figured him out. “A friend,” he echoes. “Of course.” He pulls a box of cigarettes out of his pocket, putting one in his mouth and offering Roger the box. “Vogue?” he offers.

Roger nods and takes it, letting Peter light it for him between his lips. “I’m sorry about all this,” he says again after a moment, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

“It’s alright,” he replies. “You seem like a decent bloke, Roger. Besides, the night is still young,” he says with a smile.

Peter waits for Roger to remove the cigarette from his lips before he tilts his head up and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s a peck more than anything, a goodbye. “Goodnight, Rog. Your _friend_ ,” he emphasises, “is a very lucky man.”

Roger doesn’t have the strength to make up some lie, some denial, and watches Peter as he leaves the stall. 

*

It’s almost forgotten about. Roger pushes his feelings down deep and vows to ignore them, to not fuck with their dynamics, and weeks pass by. Roger supposes the fact that they’ve been sharing hotel rooms for the tour has helped on the jealousy front – John would probably rather avoid bringing a random bloke back to their shared space.

They’re leaving for Colorado tomorrow. They’ve had their jabs, suitcases packed and ready for the early morning flight. It’s exciting, _big_ , and for the first time he can tell they all think they really could make it. Of course, he and Freddie always knew, but the idea seems to click with Brian and John both now.

They’re celebrating – or they were, Brian already gone with the vow of getting an early night, and the other three more or less split up now – and as Roger catches sight of John across the dancefloor, it suddenly feels awfully reminiscent of that night he realised.

The man talking to John is tall, with roughly-cut hair and an ugly sort of beard that doesn’t really look like it belongs on his face. It sets off alarm bells in Roger’s head as he remembers Peter’s description, somehow, even though it was weeks ago, and as soon as he sees a tattoo on his arm, he launches up and pushes his way hurriedly towards John.

It’s probably nothing, he thinks. It seems so unlikely, but Roger doesn’t want risk it. He thinks of Peter’s black eye, thinks of John with the same all too easily, cowed and shy and unable to tell any of them what really happened. Roger _cannot_ risk it.

John jumps away from the man with a worried expression on his face as soon as he sees Roger, and while Roger feels bad, all he can think about is getting him away.

“Can I talk to you?” he says, tries to make his voice sound as non-confrontational as he possibly can.

John nods stiffly, and Roger places a gentle hand on his shoulder to lead him outside.

He’s about to speak, about to warn John what he’s heard, ready to out his visit to the gay club just to keep him safe.

John speaks before he can say a word. “It wasn’t what you think. I wasn’t-”

It’s so clearly a lie, and even if Roger didn’t already know the truth he would be able to tell. “Deaks,” he says. “I’ve seen you before,” he hints, hopes it’s the right thing to say.

It isn’t. John looks at him in apprehension, like he’s scared, and Roger’s heart clenches. “Rog,” he says quietly, “please don’t tell anyone.” It sounds shaken, upset even, and Roger reminds himself what might’ve happened with that man if he hadn’t stepped in to condone his actions.

For a second, Roger finds his mouth dry and can’t get any words out.

“I’m sorry,” John says quietly.

It hurts, strangely. He finds it upsetting that John feels the need to _apologise_ , and he wills himself to speak. “Hey,” he soothes, “hey, it’s alright, I won’t. I promise,” he stresses. He places his hands softly on John’s arms to steady him and crushes any insult he has at the fact John seems to think he’ll react badly. “It- I don’t mind.”

John seems to relax a little, looking at him with wide eyes. “Why did you…” he trails off, gesturing with his head back into the club.

“That guy,” he says. “He’s been picking men up and, you know,” he gestures with a shake of his hand, “knocking them about.”

He seems unsure. “Where did you hear that?”

 _Now or never_ , Roger thinks. “Vauxhall Tavern,” he says.

“Why were you-” he starts and cuts himself off.

Roger just looks at him, wants him to piece it together for himself. He can almost see the cogs whirring in John’s expression.

“Oh,” he says after a moment. Any tension in his body seems to flow out.

Roger doesn’t spend much time thinking about the assumption John’s clearly just made. It’s more or less the truth, whatever it is, even if his attentions are generally focused on John specifically.

Whatever Roger expects to happen next, it isn’t John pulling him into a tight hug. He reciprocates once he gets over the surprise, only just realising that John is a bit tipsy. John is a bit taller than him, especially in heels, but he still manages to rest his head on Roger’s shoulder. It crosses his mind that it’s very possible he’s one of the only people who knows about John, and he wraps his arms around him tightly, protectively.

“Thank you,” John says quietly, close enough to send shivers down his spine.

He tries not to linger when John backs away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told you i had this all written.. really spreading it out isn't my style so final chapter shld be up tomorrow or friday i guess?

Something’s wrong. Roger knows that much, although he isn’t entirely sure what. Brian’s been looking increasingly _dodgy_ for the past week or so, and though he insists he’s fine, they’re all a bit worried. Roger thinks it’s probably the flu and that he needs to rest, but he knows that’ll never happen.

It’s a Saturday, and he and John are sat quietly in the hotel bar. Brian had insisted that they should go out and enjoy themselves – it is New York after all – but somehow, it didn’t feel right. Freddie had retreated back to his and Brian’s shared room after one beer, leaving the other two sat quietly on leather sofas.

Neither he nor John think anything serious is particularly wrong with Brian, but over the course of the past week, Freddie has seemed to turn into a pessimist. Roger finds it almost jarring, and he isn’t used to seeing Fred so quietly concerned. He supposes that it isn’t John or himself who have to listen to Brian’s retching half the night, so in some ways it’s understandable.

It is warm and stuffy in the bar, and Roger can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. His head feels fuzzy and he wants nothing more than to go outside for a bit, and as he watches John anxiously grind his teeth and fiddle with the rim of his beer bottle, he clears his throat.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” he asks.

John gives him a grateful sort of look and nods, and Roger feels a rush of something warm inside him. They both stand and exit the hotel quickly. As soon as they step outside, the rush of cool air and the hum of traffic hit them, and Roger sighs and closes his eyes.

“You alright?” John asks after a moment.

Roger nods. He goes to his pocket for his cigarettes, offering John one as he does. He takes it. “It just wasn’t what I expected,” he says around the cigarette as he lights it.

“What do you mean?” John questions and waits for Roger to light his.

He does, and the soft glow of the flame flickers outlines onto John’s face. There’s something pretty about it, and it strikes Roger that it would be so easy for him to cup John’s jaw gently and kiss him. It isn’t just the fact that they’re in public that stops him.

“Roger?” John prompts, and Roger realises he’s been staring rather than responding.

He sighs. “It’s just this was supposed to be _big_ , you know? And we were supposed to do well and get our name out there,” he says. John watches him patiently. “Then Brian has to go ruin it by getting the flu,” it’s said jokingly, and meant that way too, and Roger knows John will recognise it as what it is – worry.

John laughs briefly, quietly, before he sobers up. “That what you think it is then?”

Roger hopes so, but he doesn’t say that. He ignores the question. “If he’d just take some rest, he’ll be fine. We could afford to miss a couple of shows.”

“Brian wouldn’t do that,” John comments.

“No, because he’s a stubborn bastard,” he replies.

“That’s not fair, Rog,” John says. “You’re a stubborn bastard too.”

He smiles at that. “I know,” he says. “And I know I’d be the same if I were him. But I’m a hypocrite, what can I say?”

John nods, but doesn’t reply. They stand there in silence, leant against the wall for a little while.

Roger stubs his cigarette out on the wall and drops it to the ground. “Come on,” he nods down the road before starting walking.

John flicks his cigarette onto the ground and crushes it under his heel and follows.

They walk for a while, and it’s nice. Roger finds it easy to keep quiet company with John, something he can appreciate sometimes. They don’t really talk, but John’s presence is wonderfully comforting, and the silence isn’t at all awkward.

They walk in close step. A couple of times, their fingers brush, and Roger almost expects John to step away even if he doesn’t comment, but he doesn’t. His heart sings hopelessly at it. They stay close as they circle the block.

When they return to the hotel, Roger feels much less like he’s about to get a migraine, and John looks calmer. “Do you want another drink?” he asks as they step into the foyer.

John looks thoughtful. “How about we take a bottle of something up to the room?”

He nods, and they do.

It’s a rather nice bottle of champagne – not one they could usually afford – and they both sit on Roger’s bed as they drink it. Roger leans his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes, feeling tired from the drink rather than anything. 

“Do you think we’re onto something?” John asks abruptly.

Roger opens his eyes to look at him, but John isn’t looking. It’s like he’s asking the room. “What do you mean?”

“Queen,” he continues. “Do you think we could…‘make it’?” Roger can hear the air quotes. “The four of us.”

He nods confidently. “I think we could.”

John doesn’t reply.

Roger frowns. “You disagree?”

“No!” John says quickly. “No, it’s just-” he clenches his jaw a couple of times. “I mean, Freddie is,” he pauses, thinking, “one of a kind. There’s not a world where he isn’t a star. Brian is exceptional, even if he is hard-headed.”

He just allows himself to listen.

“And you, Rog,” John says. “I’ve never heard anyone drum like you.”

It’s so earnest, and Roger tries not to preen at the compliment. “But?”

“But why me?” he replies, and Roger’s heart clenches. “I just wanted a hobby, and now I’m in a rock band in America, supporting Mott the fucking Hoople.”

“Why not you?”

“Rog,” John says, smiling self-deprecatingly, like he isn’t going to believe anything Roger says. It drives him up the wall.

“No, John,” Roger replies sternly. “Why not you?”

John doesn’t reply and drops eye contact.

“You’re talented, you’ve fit in since day one,” he says, “you _know_ how many bass players we went through before you.”

John still isn’t looking at him.

“We wouldn’t work without you, you know. We wouldn’t be _here_ without you,” he continues. “Your bass is flawless; I don’t know why you keep thinking we could replace you.” He pauses. “And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Because you’re part of what makes us who we are, what makes us work. We’re mates, you know?”

John looks up at him with a soft expression. Roger’s breath hitches at it.

“You’re amazing, John,” he says quietly. “I don’t know why you can’t see it.”

Roger isn’t sure how John will respond, and he couldn’t ever hope to predict it.

John lurches forward and suddenly there are lips on his, and Roger can feel his eyes flutter in surprise. The same warm feeling Roger feels for John over the stupidest little things surges forward in his chest once more, and when John pulls back, he finds himself dazed and frozen. He’s not tired anymore.

John however, looks _aghast_ , apologetic, and soon words are stumbling out of his mouth. “Oh my god,” he says, “Roger, I’m so sorry, I-”

He looks upset and scared and Roger can’t bear it, has to do something about it, and so he rushes forward and kisses him again. John makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, but doesn’t pull away, kisses _back_ , and Roger feels like he’s fourteen and kissing his first girlfriend again. He cups John’s face, brushes a thumb over his cheek. He feels one of John’s hands on his shoulders as if to angle him better, the other on the back of his neck, gentle with no real grip.

John drops the contact for a second, and Roger has to hold back an embarrassing whinge of complaint as he pulls away, but he is quickly sated by John swinging one leg to the other side of Roger’s so that he kneels with each leg either side of Roger’s thighs. Roger has his back pressed against the headboard and John kisses him again, and he has to hold back a moan as he does. He places his hands on John’s hips.

He feels John nimbly undo his belt, still not breaking their kiss, undo his fly with one hand. Roger only just realises that they’re both hard, and his breath stutters in his throat. John must feel it, because he pulls back with a concerned expression in his grey-green eyes.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly.

Roger nods, weakly at first before he remembers himself. “Yes,” he says, clearing his throat. “More than,” he adds with a grin.

John returns it, and Roger’s heart swells. He leans forward to kiss John again, smiling into it. He loops an arm around his waist and rolls them over abruptly, and John lets out a small _oof_ noise as he hits the bed before he laughs and somehow, it’s the most beautiful sound Roger’s ever heard. He kisses him again, with more tenderness than Roger thinks he’s ever kissed.

He kneels so that John’s hips are between his knees, fingers making deft work of the buttons on John’s shirt, kissing down his chest as he does. He undoes John’s jeans, mouth at his navel, and he can hear John’s breath hitch.

He thinks briefly, fleetingly, that maybe he shouldn’t do this. After all, nothing has changed since he first realised he was even interested – John is still his friend, still his bandmate, and there is a very real risk of fucking this whole thing up. But then he just looks up, looks at John with his blown pupils and swollen lips, with his gentle expression of warmth and trust, and Roger realises that there’s no way he’s going to throw this away. He kneels between his legs, shimmies John’s jeans past his hips and pulls him out of the boxers.

It occurs to Roger then that he has no clue what he’s supposed to do now. Perhaps that isn’t quite fair – he knows what he likes, what he dislikes, but he blanches now John’s cock is in his hand. He again looks up at John again, flush high on his cheeks, and he is overcome with a need to please him, to impress him.

He spits on his hand, which he isn’t sure is particularly sexy, but if John’s about to comment the words are quickly silencing when he lets out a shaky breath when Roger twists his hand down his cock. He watches John’s eyes flutter, watches him bite his lip, and he can’t resist shifting back up to kiss him, to stop him from swallowing the moans he’s clearly trying to not let out.

John moans into his mouth as he jerks him, and Roger is so focused on it that he almost doesn’t notice John’s hand snaking into his boxers. As soon as his hand wraps around Roger’s own cock though, he gasps, like he hadn’t quite noticed how needing he was of it. John lines them up together and wraps his hands around both of their cocks, and Roger’s hand stutters for a moment.

Roger’s not usually one to lose his rhythm though, and he falls back into sync with John quickly, working together in unison. Soon, they’re moaning into each other’s mouths and Roger thinks he’s close, but he doesn’t want it to be over yet.

He pulls back, ignoring how his cock aches at the loss of contact. John makes a noise of protest and Roger half-smiles at him.

“Roger,” he says roughly, but it doesn’t seem to be going anyway.

Roger returns to his place between John’s legs, and hesitates for a second before bringing his mouth around the tip of John’s cock. He doesn’t know what he’s doing and he knows it, but the slightly surprised gasp it elicits from John is worth it.

He wraps his hand around John’s cock and keeps it close to his mouth like he remembers a girl doing to him one time, how it felt deeper than it actually was. He takes John’s cock as far into his mouth as he can without being sure he’ll gag – admittedly, not that far – and John’s hands fly to his hair. They don’t grab, just tangle in it lightly. It’s nice, and Roger continues.

John pulls his hair, ever so slightly, and Roger moans over his cocks. Roger can feel the vibration of it in his hand, and John’s breath hitches again.

Suddenly, John taps his shoulder a little frantically and he pulls off him with a pop. Roger’s about to ask if he’s okay, if there’s a problem, if he’s doing something wrong, but John’s hand trails to his jaw and gently pulls him up to kiss him.

“Would you…” John starts and frowns, like he isn’t quite sure what how to phrase it. “Do you have lube?” he asks, almost innocently, bringing his legs up to tap his knees pointedly on Roger’s hips.

Roger’s breath catches in his throat. He nods, sure he’s got some in the drawer in his bedside table. He’s frozen though, and can’t go get it.

“Do you want to?” John asks. “Fuck me, I mean,” he specifies, lips turning up at its crudeness.

He nods. “Yeah,” he says and clears his throat. “God, yes.” He manages to remember himself then, and springs off the bed to find the bottle.

It’s there, thankfully, and when he turns back around, John has rid himself of his trousers from where they had wrapped around his ankles, legs bent up in front of him as he sits and watches Roger. He looks suddenly quite small, self-conscious, and Roger needs more than anything to be close to him. He returns to the bed, but before he can get back on, John stops him, hands on his hips.

Worry pangs in his gut for a moment, wondering if John wants to stop.

“You’re wearing too much,” John says instead, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Roger cracks a smile then, and lets John help him in getting rid of his trousers. His shirt soon follows, though already undone, as does John’s. He feels almost bare in front of him, and he imagines John must do too, but there’s an unspoken level of trust between them that relaxes him.

John leans back, propped up on his elbows, and opens his legs.

Once again, Roger’s out of his depth, but he’s never been one to resist a challenge. He kneels between his legs, clicks open the bottle of lube, and squirts some out onto his finger. He hesitates.

“You’re going to have to tell me if I do something wrong,” he tells John.

“Oh, don’t worry,” John says, “I will.” He nudges him playfully with his knee.

There’s something so _easy_ about this whole thing, and Roger supposes it’s because they’re such good friends. He would have thought that’d have made things more awkward, but it doesn’t – it’s easy to have fun, to fall into camaraderie, more so than with strangers. Because Roger actually _likes_ John, likes him in a deeper sense than all those girls he’s picked up over the years, it somehow feels so natural.

He wonders why he was ever worried.

He warms the lube up with his other hand before wiping the residue on the sheets, leaning forward to work a finger into John. As soon as he presses his fingertip in, John jumps, and Roger waits. After a moment, he pushes it in further, slowly. He wraps his other hand around John’s cock and moves his finger in and slowly a couple of times.

“Shit,” John says.

Roger grins at it.

“Don’t know what you’re looking so smug about,” John manages.

“You sure?” he asks, and hooks his finger forward as he jerks John’s cock in one smooth motion.

John moans beneath his hands, fingers clenching in the sheets, and Roger feels a rush of pride. He works his way to a second finger, and John doesn’t say anything then. He continues to move his hand up and down on John’s cock, painfully slow, as he does it. John’s head is thrown back, his long hair spread out over the mattress below them, with flushed skin and making noises he’s obviously trying to smother at the back of his throat. Roger doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look so good.

“Have you done this before?” he asks abruptly.

John doesn’t reply for a second, but he nods. “A couple of times.”

Something possessive flares within him, and he works John open more vigorously. He thinks he could probably make John fall apart under his fingers there and then, but his cock aches and he _needs_ to be inside him, needs to feel some semblance of John being _his_ , so he puts the idea aside for another time. Roger manages three fingers, then four, before John nudges him, a little desperately.

Roger frowns and freezes. “Okay?”

He nods. “If you keep doing that,” John says, a little hoarsely, wetting his lips. “I’m not going to last much longer.”

Obediently, Roger withdraws his fingers, and although he asked for it, it makes John whine. “Impatient,” he teases as he lubes himself up.

“Fuck off,” he replies.

Roger lines himself up, pushing John’s leg up to get a better angle, and John’s other leg falls to the side to give him a wide berth. He pushes in slowly, and the sudden rush of tightness and heat makes him stutter out a groan.

He looks down, and there’s strain in John’s features, his eyes closed.

“Hey,” Roger prompts, “you alright?”

John’s eyes open, and though the strain is still there, he’s looking at him softly. “Yeah,” he says. “Are you planning on moving?”

Roger leans down and kisses him as he rolls his hips experimentally, one hand clasping the back of John’s neck and the other on his cock. He starts a careful rhythm, letting himself hear every one of John’s increasingly satisfied breaths. He mouths at John’s neck, and shifts them a little.

“ _Ah_ ,” John gasps out suddenly, and Roger realises he’s found the right angle.

Even now, it crosses his mind that this isn’t the first time John’s done this. He thinks of the men he’s seen him follow into bathrooms. It flares that possessiveness inside him again, and he fucks him a little faster, a little harder, giving in somewhat to his instinct to let loose. John’s breath falters out in time with his rhythm, along with the quiet sounds he’s making. It only makes Roger keep going, scraping his teeth over John’s throat, feeling their skin slap together, chasing the way he pants and gasps. John’s blunt fingernails scrape at his back.

“Rog,” John gasps out, pushing at him with his hand, and Roger’s hips halt.

He watches him in concern. “What is it?”

“Wanna try something,” he tells him, voice rough.

“Okay,” Roger replies, a little unsure.

John pulls himself off Roger’s cock, and Roger smothers a grumble, before John pushes him onto his back. For a second, he wonders what John’s going to do, but it suddenly becomes abundantly clear when he straddles him. He can’t get any words out as John takes his cock in his hand and slowly drops onto it. Roger feels his toes curl.

John moves his hips experimentally, face drawn with almost concentration.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks. “Fuck,” he gasps out. “John,” he says, and it seems to give John a degree of confidence.

He rolls his hips slowly, pushing himself up and down as he fucks himself with Roger’s cock. His skin is flushed, and his silhouette is lit by the hotel room lamp. He moans as he does so, and Roger thinks he’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“John,” he murmurs as John keeps going. “You’re amazing,” he tells him.

It makes John blush, obvious even with his already flushed skin, and Roger puts his hands on his hips.

“You’re amazing,” he tells him again, like he needs to make him believe it.

Roger pulls him down closer so he can kiss him, hips pushing up in sync with the rhythm John’s set. He can feel John’s movements begin to stutter, and he fucks up harder, holding him in place and tension builds in his gut.

John comes with a cut-off moan onto Roger’s stomach and Roger can taste his own name on his lips, and he fucks him deeply through his climax.

He doesn’t last long after that, and he’s still inside John.

“I’m gonna-” he tries to tell John, but can’t quite manage, but he thinks John gets the gist.

“Okay,” he tells him quietly, clearly abuzz of stimulation but staying firmly on top of Roger, and Roger knows he has permission.

He comes inside him and groans, the feeling spurring that possessiveness inside him. He pulls John close, turns his head into his neck as he does, sucking a hickey onto his skin. 

They sit there like that for a moment before John rolls off with an uncomfortable sort of expression as Roger’s cock pulls out of him, and collapses at Roger’s side on the bed. They lie there for a little while, just breathing.

“That was,” Roger starts to fill the silence, “good.” It’s an understatement.

“Mm,” John responds seriously, before giggling.

It’s stupidly charming, and Roger rolls over to kiss him again, chaste this time. He rolls back after, leans off the bed to grab a shirt off the floor – his, he hopes – and wipes the mess of his stomach. He throws it back on the floor afterwards, deciding it’s a problem for the morning.

John pushes himself up and off the bed, crossing the room.

“Where are you going?”

“Loo,” he replies. “Need to clean up.” He sounds tired, well-fucked, and Roger lies back and lets himself feel proud of that for a moment.

John returns shortly after and gets back into bed with him. Roger stretches his arm out as an offering, but John only looks at it.

He rolls his eyes. “Come here,” he tells him, and John does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aa thanks for your comments on this !! i'll try n reply a bit later but also i'm both depressed and forgetful so sorry if.. no
> 
> but YEAH enjoy

Roger is woken by a knock at the door. It’s early he thinks, obnoxiously so, but it’s made alright by the fact John is still pressed against his chest, asleep. He considers ignoring it, pretending he’s not there.

“Roger,” comes Freddie’s voice through the door. “Roger, Deaky. Open up, please.”

Roger resists the urge to loop his fingers in his hair, and instead rolls out of bed very slowly with a sigh, carefully not to wake John. He drapes the sheets back over him to hide his modesty and pulls on his boxers from the night before off the floor.

He doesn’t bother getting more dressed to answer the door – Fred’s seen him naked before, and he sounds rushed – and opens it to see an almost frantic Freddie. He doesn’t speak immediately, eyes drifting over Roger’s state of undress and a still-sleeping John wrapped in the white sheets on Roger’s bed, the other bed made neatly and clearly un-slept in. He knows what it must look like, although he doubts if it were Brian at his door he’d put the pieces together.

Freddie doesn’t comment, and that’s the point at which Roger realises something must really be wrong.

“Can you come with me please?” he says, a little desperately. “Wake John.”

“What’s going on, Fred?” he asks, voice rough, and rubs his eyes.

“It’s Brian,” Freddie replies, something anxious drawn into his features, and it’s all Roger needs.

Worry flashes in his gut again, and he doesn’t ask Freddie for more information. It’d be better to just follow what he’s asking. “Yeah,” he says and clears his throat. “Yeah, give us a sec.”

Freddie nods, and heads back off down the corridor towards his and Brian’s room.

Roger shuts the door, and heads back over to the bed. He sits on the edge and shakes John’s shoulder gently. John wakes with a grumble, and Roger doesn’t give him the chance to complain to him.

“Get dressed,” he tells him, “something’s wrong.”

John seems suddenly more awake, but doesn’t seem to question him as he begins to get up.

Roger stands to get dressed himself, returning briefly as an after-thought to press a kiss to John’s forehead. Despite his anxiety, he finds it in himself to find warm amusement at John’s obviously faked disgust.

They get dressed quickly, and Roger takes the strip of mint gum John offers to him, both of them forgoing brushing their teeth right now. They leave, and walk down the corridor together. Roger’s sure that this time, the brushing of their fingers is on purpose.

Roger knocks on Fred and Brian’s door. “It’s us,” he calls.

“Come in,” comes Fred’s voice.

He opens the door.

Jim is on the phone in the corner, talking quietly, and Freddie hovers behind Brian, looking uneasy. Brian is sat on the bed, bucket between his legs, looking decidedly unwell and _yellow_.

“Holy shit,” Roger says before he can help himself.

“Thanks, Rog,” Brian replies, clearly tired but still with some snark. Freddie smirks from where he’s standing behind him.

John shuts the door behind them. “Have you seen a doctor?”

Brian shakes his head but seems to regret the motion and winces.

“Miami’s just on the phone to one now,” Freddie tells him. “Not that it matters. We’re going home.”

Roger is surprised he doesn’t feel disappointed – abstractly, he is, but there’s no sinking feeling or upset, just care for his friend.

“We’re not,” Brian grumbles. “Not unless we have to.”

“We’ll have to,” Fred snaps. “Show them your arm.”

Brian reluctantly does. His arm is red and swelling, with what looks like the beginning of a sore. Roger recognises it as an infection, a quite serious one at that, and all hopes of it being the flu dissipates.

“When’s the plane, then?” John asks abruptly, clearly already decided.

Jim places his hand over the end of the phone. “In four hours, if you want it.”

“Of course we want it,” Fred says.

Brian looks to Roger and John, as if he’s expecting an argument. “That’s what we wanted to ask you. See if you wanted to go.”

Roger frowns. “Why wouldn’t we?” he asks irritably. “What are we going to do, play without you? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Brian, but a guitar is a pretty major part of our sound.”

Brian is quiet then, and Roger almost feels bad for speaking so harshly with him clearly so unwell. Almost. It’s quiet for a moment then, a little awkward.

“Well,” John says out of the blue. “Better get packing then.”

*

Things get worse from there over the course of the week.

Brian seems weaker on the plane than he has all week, exhausting the plane’s supply of sickness bags and seemingly in more pain. Roger realises that it might be down to him not faking feeling alright enough to perform, and something churns in his stomach that he didn’t notice.

The ordeal is softened by the fact John falls asleep on his shoulder.

They check Brian into the hospital, and pretty soon any level of relief they felt at the hepatitis diagnosis – unpleasant, but treatable – was lost by the fact he had gangrene. Roger didn’t think gangrene was even still around; it was something he associated with the likes of gout and scurvy and such.

Sheffield insists they get on with the next album while Brian’s still in the hospital. Brian’s in a hospital bed in and out of consciousness with a raging infection that might make his arm fall off, and their fucking distributor is calling them directly to tell them to start working.  

It isn’t necessarily unusual for them not to all record together, but it feels like something – _someone_ – is missing. Roger can hardly bear his own anxiety, let alone Freddie’s as well. He doesn’t have to very often though, because Freddie spends most of his time at the hospital.

John is quieter, which is difficult to achieve, almost calm. He’s not so obviously worried like Roger and Freddie, and though Roger knows he must be, it sometimes gets on his nerves that John can seem to shut it all away.

What’s worse is that they haven’t spoken since they got back. They’ve all been too preoccupied, but Roger hates the uncertainty and how he doesn’t know where he stands with John.

It’s not his best moment, admittedly, when something does finally snap.

He and Freddie have been arguing, the whole thing spinning wildly out of control without Brian backing at least one of them up or moderating the situation. John just quietly stays out of it, continuing to tune his bass like he’s ignoring them. Eventually, Freddie throws his arms up after it becomes clear Roger isn’t going to cave, and leaves the room.

“You can speak, you know,” Roger tells John sharply.

John frowns at him, somewhere between confusion and unpleasantness. “What?”

“You could back me up some time.”

John calmly puts his bass down and stands, picking up his coat as if he’s recognising they’re done for the day. “What if I disagree?” he asks, almost teasingly.

Roger would probably find it funny if he was in a better mood, but as it stands, he isn’t. “Then you could disagree!”

“I’m not going to fight you when you’re like this,” John replies simply.

“Like what?”

John sighs. “You’re clearly worried about Brian. We all are, but-”

“Are you?” he interrupts before John can say any more. It’s unfair, and he doesn’t really believe it, but John’s serenity has been bugging him and he’s really spoiling for a fight.

That does seem to get a rise. “How can you ask me that?”

He scoffs. “He’s seriously ill, and you’re just acting like everything is normal!” he cries. “You’re not worried or angry or anything!”

John watches him quietly, incredulously.

“Do you even care about him?”

“Of course I do, Roger!” he replies, throwing his hands up.

“Do you even care about the band?”

“Yes!”

Roger huffs. “Then why don’t you contribute to any of our discussions?”

“ _Discussions_?” John repeats disbelievingly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Roger, but that wasn’t a discussion.”

“Arguments, then,” he corrects.

“I’m not going to fight with you while you’re so…all over the place,” John says harshly. “We might lose Brian; I’m not going to lose you too over some petty fight over a song.”

Roger blinks. A part of Roger feels warm at the fact John cares enough about him to worry about losing him, but there’s something more major there to focus on. “We’re not going to lose Brian, what the fuck are you on about?”

“They’re about three days from cutting off his arm, Rog,” he replies.

“So?”

“So he can’t play.”

He gapes at him. “What, so because he won’t be able to play anymore, you just expect us to throw him to the wayside?”

“No, Rog-”

“He’s our friend!” he says sharply. “How dare you?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” John says quickly before he can interrupt again.

Roger puts his hands on his hips. “What did you mean, then, _Deaky_?” he says the nickname like an insult.

John hesitates then, drops his tone. “You know full well that if he loses his arm, we lose him.”

Roger _knows_ he’s right. He knows that if he couldn’t drum, he’d lose it. He knows what guitar means to Brian, Brian with his hard edges but gentle heart, and he knows how he gets when he’s in one of his moods. He knows what John is implying, that John is right, but there’s no way Roger is ready to think about it.

He has two choices then – crying or anger – and one is so much easier than the other.

He pushes John back against the wall, arm pressed to his chest as he does, and hears how it knocks the air out of John’s lungs. “Shut up,” he tells him, practically snarls, slamming an open palm against the wall by John’s head.

Anger is convenient, something he understands. It makes him feel like he has control of a situation, makes him able to ignore the situation and pretend that everything’s fine. Then he has to ruin it by looking in John’s eyes.

John isn’t angry like him, or annoyingly calm about everything like Roger thought he was. John is _sad_ , and it’s etched onto his features like a scar. What’s somehow worse is that he’s looking at Roger so trustingly, despite the fact Roger has just thrown him against the wall. He isn’t sure if he’d have preferred anger, or god-forbid, fear, but John’s all doe-eyed and soft gazed and it’s all too much for Roger.

“Sod this,” he mutters and drops back.

He leaves before either of them can say another word.

*

It’s late. Roger should really be in bed, but he isn’t, he’s sat downstairs reading and listening to the radio. He’s alone, Freddie still at the hospital, undoubtedly still sleeping in that awful shell of a plastic chair with his head leant on Brian’s bed as he was when Roger dropped by to give Brian a book. He’s calmed down, cleared his head, and made a vow to both apologise to John and ask to talk in the morning. The music playing is lulling out, and the station is one of the only ones still playing music at this time. Roger doesn’t know what time it is, but he knows it’s dark and it has been for a good while. It’s too late for someone to be knocking at his door, by any means.

Nevertheless, they are.

He turns the tip of the page in and shuts the book, placing it on the floor by the sofa as he stands. He opens the door to a bedraggled-looking John, who isn’t crying but almost certainly has been.

“I’m sorry,” John says immediately, looking regretful. “It’s late, I shouldn’t have come here.” He’s backing away, and Roger realises that he might walk off.

His heart clenches at the sight, but he’s glad John thought to come to him. He gently takes his arm. “Don’t be silly,” he says, “come on.” He pulls him inside.

He sits John down on his sofa and makes them both tea. He thinks John might have been drinking, and he doesn’t think offering him anything harder would do either of them any good.

“Here,” he says as he puts the mugs down on the coffee table.

“Thanks, Rog,” John says and picks his up, taking a sip.

Roger sits down next to him and waits, sure John must be about to say something. He turns so that he’s angled towards John, arm draped over the back of the sofa.

“I’m sorry,” John says after a few moments.

Roger finds himself frowning. “Why?”

John glances at him. “For what I said today. About…losing Brian.” His voice is a little hoarse, and he clears his throat quietly. “I do care.”

Something twists in his gut at that. “I know you do,” he says softly, and drops his hand off the back of the sofa to gentle twist his finger through John’s hair. “I’m sorry too. For everything.”

He thinks that maybe he should say more, but he can’t find the words. It’s alright though, because John doesn’t seem to need anything more, and with the way he leans into Roger’s touch, Roger knows he’s forgiven.

They sit quietly together for a few minutes more, finishing their tea, before Roger stands and offers to take John’s mug to wash it up.

“I’ll do it,” John tells him, and follows him to the kitchen.

Roger’s other radio – his old one, a gift from his sister – plays quietly, something slow and gentle and old.

They do all of Roger’s washing up from that night together – not that Roger asked. Roger washes and John dries, working in sync as they do when they play. It feels horribly domestic and Roger wants _more_ , needs it, and he has to know where he is with John.

“Last week,” Roger starts, and _God_ it’s really been that long. He sees John freeze in his actions. He considers his next words carefully, changes route with what he’s trying to say. “I really like you, Deaks,” he says, heart in his throat. “Would you let me take you out for dinner sometime?”

John continues drying the plate he was holding, not looking up. “What, like a date?” he asks, playing dumb, and warmth blooms in Roger’s chest at the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, like he’s trying to hide it.

He looks at him and smiles. “Yeah, like a date.”

John looks up and returns it softly. “I’d like that, Rog.”

Despite everything, Roger keeps smiling, nudging John’s shoulder beside him and returning to washing up. Roger hands John the last plate and leans over the sink to turn the volume up on the radio.

As John finishes drying the plate, Roger backs up behind him and places his hands, washing-up gloves still on, on his hips. He begins to move them together in time to the music.

“Roger,” John says, like a complaint, but Roger can hear him smiling even if he can’t see it.

After John finishes wiping off the plate and puts it down, he turns around, and Roger keeps his hands on his hips. He smiles slightly and loops his arms through Roger’s so he can place them on the small of Roger’s back. 

Roger supposes they both need it – some level of physical intimacy, comfort. He’s found it in sex before, in girls he’s picked up at the bar to take his mind off things and to have someone to hold close for a night, but something about there’s something so much more tender in this.

John rests his head against Roger’s, and Roger rocks them slowly to the music. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he wonders if John can hear it. The song is soft, melancholy, and Roger can hear John humming quietly. It’s pathetically endearing, and Roger thinks abstractly that now possibly isn’t the time to start this, with everything going on. Then John shifts his hands so they’re tighter around Roger’s waist, though not uncomfortably so, and Roger forgets it and lets himself have the moment.

John fits in his arms perfectly, and he in John’s, and Roger finds himself wishing the moment would never end. He never wants to let go, never wants to see anyone else put his hands on John again.

Even if Roger wasn’t so intensely aware of his feelings, it feels like something so much more than one night, something more than friends with benefits. It feels so intimate, so warm and tender.

John pulls back like he intends to say something with a soft expression on his face, and Roger thinks he must be watching him with wonder. There’s a stray strand of hair blocking his view, and without thinking, he reaches up to tuck it behind John’s ear. 

John kisses him. It’s innocent, a brush of lips more than anything, almost like it’s accidental.

Roger daredn’t move. His heart leaps, and it somehow feels more intimate than actually sleeping with John.

“Oops,” John says quietly.

“Stay the night,” he says abruptly. “Please.”

He wonders if John might say no, tell him to leave it for tonight – though Roger only means to _sleep_ , to hold him close to him tonight – but John just smiles. “Okay,” he says, and it’s as easy as that.

*

The studio isn’t booked the next day, and they head to the hospital as soon as they’re both up. John poaches him some eggs for breakfast and Roger is grateful for the change from his usual cornflakes. They walk the five minutes to the taxi rank down the road and head straight there.

When they enter Brian’s room, Brian shushes them despite the fact they’re making no noise.

He looks better – not well exactly, still pale and tired with his arm in a sling, but distinctly not yellow, a more content expression on his face. His good hand is on Freddie’s shoulder where he dozes on Brian’s bed sheets, and it occurs to Roger, not for the first time, that there could be something going on there.

He doesn’t comment, though, just as Freddie didn’t the other night.

“Hey,” Roger says quietly.

“Hey,” Brian responds at the same volume.

John sits down in a chair on the other side of Brian’s bed from Fred. “How are you feeling?” he asks tentatively.

“Alright,” he replies, which is clearly a lie with his drawn features, but Roger notices the lack of tension and optimism flashes in his gut. “They debrided the tissue yesterday. The antibiotics are working, too.”

Roger thinks he knows what that means, but he has to confirm it. “You’re keeping it then?” he asks, slightly jovially, and nods at Brian’s arm.

Brian can’t seem to hold back his smile. “Yeah,” he says. “It’ll take a while to heal, so I won’t be able to play for a while but, you know. Good news.”

“Yeah,” Roger replies, grinning. He looks to John and sees a similar expression on his face.

Brian and John settle into a quiet conversation, though Brian doesn’t speak all that much, about whatever book Brian’s been reading – the one John had read to him a couple of times earlier in the week when things were worse – and Roger watches them from the side of the room. Freddie still doesn’t stir, and Roger smiles, knowing he’s been exhausting himself with work and worry.

He feels _hope_ , like they’re on the cusp of something great. He doesn’t know whether it’s for the band or for what lies ahead with John as he watches his subtle excitement and soothed expression while he talks.

He finds he doesn’t mind.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! yell at me if there are any mistakes bc i dont have a beta


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